THE LIGHTHOUSE
by SongofVedas
Summary: So Mote it Be.


THE LIGHTHOUSE

It was dim.

Waves could be heard crashing against craggy old stone. Above, a ceiling lamp swayed hypnotically, revealing orange-hued glimpses of Mr. Wake's home.

Ephraim stepped forward tentatively, snorting while removing his hat. There was a slight odor that accompanied a small table with two chairs; a reverberating and subtle stench that caused saliva to swim up Ehpraim's throat in growing disgust.

"Mr. Wake?" The young man called. The home seemed crypt-like, empty. Ephraim marched forward, his movement breaking silence like shattered glass. He spied a spiraling staircase to the far left, beside a dead, iron fireplace backed by rows upon rows of books.

Ephraim turned towards the table.

There were markings etched on the table's sides. Carvings? Symbols? Ephraim was unsure.

They curled and danced across dark wood. The chairs carried the etches as well, standing guard under the gaze of Wake's moon-like lamp.

The house creaked. A groaning _moan_ emanated from heavy oak. Wind whipped about outside, screaming gale battering against harshly pointed windows.

Ephraim suddenly jumped, swearing as his eyes darted towards the stairs.

A man stood at the crown of the steps, staring at Ephraim in regal silence. He wore a simple black shirt paired with heavy-looking overalls, dirtied by decades of salt water.

He was older, cleanly shaven. His hair was pecked with salt, long and pushed back. He might've been handsome in his youth, but in old age he bore an almost unnerving gaze.

"The new _Wickie, _are _ye_? how fortune finds us," His voice was heavily accented- nearly comical. It was also surprisingly genuine in its silence, Ephraim found himself straining to hear the man.

"Mr. Wake," Ephraim nodded. Wake smiled thinly, stepping down the stairs with deliberate slowness. His steps were accompanied by a heavy, pointed _thud- _

A peg met Wake's thigh, catching Ephraim's green eyes before they shifted back to the old man's visage.

Mr. Wake climbed down the stairs without offering any more words. Ephraim swallowed, exhaling as he began breathing from his mouth.

"Ephraim Winslow," The young man's voice adopted a false roughness. A hand was offered to Wake as he labored past. Wake gripped Ephraim's hand, dragging the younger man along slightly before releasing him.

He hobbled for the fireplace. Grunting, Mr. Wake reached for iron keys that dangled from his back pocket.

It was then Ephraim spied a black statue smelted _from _the iron floor and upwards, taking up nearly three feet in height, and a foot in width.

The image bore the shape of a woman, pregnant, crawling forward on all fours. Her mouth was closed, and long hair trailed downwards, pooling on either side of her cheeks.

Frowning, Ephraim watched as Mr. Wake stabbed his keys into the statue's back. A latch opened.

The older man picked choice small pieces of wood from the statue, opening his furnace with a free hand.

"Never seen anyone lock up _wood_," Ephraim said with a furrowed brow.

"Best to keep the dryness. Wood isn't as common as you'd _think,"_ the old man chuckled in surprisingly good humor.

Mr. Wake turned as he deposited the wood into the fireplace.

"Sit if it pleases ye," he said, nodding towards the chairs that stood sigil behind Ephraim.

Ephraim sat, conscious of the rough etching as it caught his clothing.

He looked about the room. The walls were married to jutting shelves, each one carrying a combination of books and various canned goods. Figures lined the walls between shelves. Fish, men, women, and even _octopus _crawled across Mr. Wake's home. Ephraim counted thirty tiny idols before giving up.

As Wake's lamp moved, shadows danced across the table.

"You been here a long time." Ephraim said.

Another soft laugh emanated from Mr. Wake.

"I could never be without _her_ for too long," Wake rasped.

"The sea," Ephraim finished, tapping large hands on the table.

Wake turned then, locking eyes with the Wickie. Ephraim exhaled sharply, ceasing movement. Wake dropped his intentful glare.

Mr. Wake rose with a grunt. Lamplight washed over him, wide shoulders hanging off of the edge of a thin and frail body. He was a shorter man, nearly a head less than Ephraim himself.

Silence filled the home once more, punctuated only by Mr. Wake's knocking peg. The old man vanished behind the rows of books behind the fireplace- an area of the home that was shrouded in darkness.

Ephraim heard dishes clanging together, and then a _scraping _of metal. After a few moments, Mr. Wake emerged from the rows of ancient books, holding two simple bowls. Within each of them was an upturned can, contents spilling out.

"Bring the chairs closer to the fire if you will," Wake said softly as he struggled with his cargo.

Ephraim frowned.

"I can help, Mr. Wake."

"Just bring the chairs." The old man replied. Ephraim nodded, rising from his seat. He gathered the two chairs within his hands as Mr. Wake placed the bowls on top of his fireplace.

"Should only take a few minutes to warm," Wake said, taking a chair from Ephraim.

They both seated themselves, faces half illuminated by the small fire that grumbled behind an iron-barred prison.

"I have to wonder how long you'll last," Wake said.

Ephraim was aware of the task before him. He had to assist Mr. Wake with general upkeep, in addition to cleaning the lights and lens. He also had to replace the numerous oil lamps that lined the stairs outside, in addition to replacing the water pulleys that controlled the mechanic clockwork mechanisms within the lighthouse. It was busy work mostly, nothing he hadn't done before.

The Wickie's face soured suddenly as a cruel mind intrusively brought him back to _that _day six months ago.

"I'll show _ye _the grounds on the morrow. After we eat, you'll get an early start to bed."

Ephraim nodded silently. He hadn't noticed how tired and hungry he was. The fire was nice too- it soothed him, made him feel less alien in this strange environment.

His eyes passed over Mr. Wake's face once more. The man was staring intently into the fire as smoke began to rise from their shared meal. Ephraim hesitated, then rose, retrieving both of their bowls. He handed one to Mr. Wake, who was woken from his stupor with a tired smile.

"It may be time for me to take my rest soon as well." Wake whispered.

Ephraim offered the old man a friendly nod.

Sitting once more, he scooped at his meal with a wide, metal spoon. The canned food had melted into a sort of meatsoup- it was sweet smelling, and the liquid within it was thick and rather viscous.

"What we eating? It smells good. Haven't had a warm meal in six days." Ephraim said as he rose his spoon to waiting lips.

"Pork," the old man replied.

"No time for grace, boy?" Mr. Wake added.

"My ma never prayed. Never went to church much neither." Ephraim responded. Out of respect, however, he did stop himself from eating.

Mr. Wake's weathered face gifted another small grin.

"Seems we got ourselves a lad with manners," Mr. Wake said.

"Manners will do you good here. Manners means ye can _learn." _Wake complimented.

Ephraim smiled wanly as the old man closed his eyes.

The old man held his hand outwards, then placed his index finger directly on his forehead.

"Our Father, who art the Heavens, hallowed be Thy name.

May peace and love reign on Earth as they do in the _Summerland_.

Give us this day our daily bread, and forgive us for hurting our Mother the _depths_. Help us to teach others The Way of Caring. And lead us from destruction by delivering us from ignorance and greed.

So mote it be." He finished.

Opening his eyes, he looked at Ephraim.

"So mote it be." Ephraim parroted.

"Never heard any prayer nor hymn like that I'd wager," Wake said softly.

"You'd be right," Ephraim replied. He began eating- he was surprised. The meat.. it was _good. _

Ephraim wasn't sure if it was just his hunger or something else- he had been eating nothing but rations on the voyage to this cold, dark island. Regardless, the meal warmed him.

"My mother believed in the Christian god, I assure lad. But she also never forgot the old _ways, _never forgot the _world_, the heavens nor the seas." Wake said.

Ephraim ran his spoon along the curve of his bowl, gathering remnants of meat and soup..

He questioned why he felt so relaxed. Maybe it was the fact he was finally speaking to _someone- _how long had it been? Only a few hours, correct?

He buried his newfound reservations, opting to finish his meal.

"It's easy to forget where we come from." The young man said wistfully.

Outside, wind howled.

Mr. Wake offered no more conversation.

The old man finished his meal in complete silence, slurping rather loudly. The sound of his eating was backed by a chorus of waves. Ephraim found himself looking at the idols that lined the walls once more.

They looked.. grotesque. Their faces were contorted in pain, their positions were ones of a cruel rigamortis, strained- _stretched. _

The only idols that did not bring immediate horror were the non-human ones- the octopus, the fish.

"Did you make them?" Ephraim ventured, his deep voice breaking the current spell of silence.

"Only some. Most of them were given to me by my mother." Mr. Wake answered.

He looked tired.

Ephraim took Mr. Wake's dishes. The old man insisted he leave them on the table.

"I'll show _ye _the kitchen on the morrow," Mr. Wake had said.

"I'm eager for this night of _rest," _

Mr. Wake brought Ephraim upstairs. It was slow going, and to Ephraim's surprise, Mr. Wake allowed the young man to assist him.

They limped through a long hallway, bordered by barren walls. It ended in a blue door, leading to a large room with a concave ceiling.

A bed was found within- large, more than enough for Ephraim's frame. There was a dresser, though Ephraim had no clothes nor belongings other than the ones he wore, and the documents he carried.

Beside the bed, a large bay window beamed. It bore a cross foundation, segmenting the adjacent nighttime sea into four black corners.

Mr. Wake nodded at Ephraim.

"I'll allow a full morning's rest." Wake said before leaving.

Ephraim disrobed and climbed into bed- after ensuring the old man closed the door, then listening as his peg _knocked _gradually from earshot.

_Sleep _came quickly. Ephraim was exhausted. Seven days of sailing- for _this? _

He dreamed.

He awoke.

Ephraim coughed- he couldn't breathe.

The young man threw his blankets off of his body. Ephraim groped a clenched throat, gasping.

_I feel- _

He opened his mouth.

Ephraim's eyes shot open.

The man gasped, panting as he rose himself in bed.

The covers blanketed him.

A dream.

A sigh hissed from Ephraim's lips as he turned in bed, gathering blankets around thin shoulders. He faced the window, gazing upon the s-

He squinted.

On the windowsill, a figure stood. Behind, the moon lustfully _beamed_, round and full. Stars spread across Ephraim's eyes as he took in the idol that blessed him.

It was a woman, beautiful. Her head was shaved, adorned with a crown and body well-formed. She was pinned to a stake, armed raised above her ears, palms vertical to the sharp points of a curling headdress.

Waves were carved around her thighs, flowering outward.

Ephraim _knew _beyond a shadow of a doubt it hadn't been there before. He was _amazed _by the window when he first saw it, took special note of almost every aspect of it- that magnificent frame of the sea beyond.

But.

Was it possible he _hadn't _noticed it?

He was tired.

_It was always there. _


End file.
